“I will send word to Frank Unett that you are here, sir,” said Dr. Harford, “for he, too, is one that deplores the present illegal rule without a Parliament; he will mourn Sir John’s death.”
“We call it a death,” said Sir Robert, “but he has been as surely murdered by the rigours of imprisonment as though he had been stabbed in the Tower. Well,” with a sigh, “the day of reckoning cannot long be delayed.”
“There, laddie,” said the doctor, drawing the sleeve gently over the bandage, “you have borne it like an Englishman; now run off into the fresh air and forget your troubles.”
With respectful salutes to their elders the children returned to the garden; Hilary, with her pretty eyes still tender and subdued, slipped her arm caressingly round her playmate’s neck. “I’m sorry, Gabriel,” she said, in a tremulous voice, “and all the time I didn’t really mean it. I will be your little wife.”
Gabriel turned and kissed her soft, rosy cheek with great frankness and warmth. “If you will,” he said, “I’ll promise not to worry your puppets any more. I don’t know how it is,” he continued reflectively, “but there’s something that makes a boy feel to a puppet like a dog does to a cat—he must worry it.”
“There was the one you roasted last Lammastide,” said Hilary, sadly.
“But you know it did make a glorious bonfire, and you enjoyed that part of it,” said Gabriel, with mirth in his eyes.
“But I wanted the puppet back again afterwards.”
“Well, well, I must try to remember you like the wretches. And you must really remember your promise, and not chop and change any more!”
“What does chop mean?”